Harry Potter, Age 67
by Lady Hurricane
Summary: What is the famous Harry Potter like at age 67? This is a silly little fic not meant to be taken too seriously. Harry fans: this is a joke! I like Harry, really.


**Author's Note:** This is another one of my ridiculous fics, sorry. Written for a friend, not meant to be taken seriously, blah blah blah... Harry fans: please don't be offended. I like him, I really do. His character in this fic is unsavory at best, but its based on a real-life person that I'm obviously not very fond of :) hhaha

67-year-old Harry Potter slicked his gray hair back (well, what was left of it anyways – he was experiencing male pattern baldness so intense that even Fred & George's strongest hair growth kits were no longer working), away from his face, and admired his reflection in the bathroom mirror. He must admit: he looked quite excellent for his age. He looked wise, handsome, and intelligent, his body toned and tanned from using Lady Margaret Quail's Magical Self-Tanning Potion (_for all ages and all skin types!_). He was the epitome of manliness and high-culture. He still hadn't lost his boyish charm(s). This is what _he_ thought, at least. To the rest of the world he looked like a washed up has-been who used far too much self-tanner for his own good, or for the good of those around him.

He smoothed the collar of his fifty-Galleon neon orange polo, which coincidentally was the same color as his unfortunate skin tone. Flexing his sagging muscles, he tried to suck his potbelly in a bit. Fail. All in all, however, he thought he looked exceptionally sexy… definitely younger than 67… _decades_ younger than 67, in fact. After all these years, he still possessed all the boyish charm of a 16 year-old Justin Bieber, and it still felt great to be Harry _fucking_ Potter.

He wagged his eyebrows at his mirror image, "so what's _your_ name?" He asked in what he clearly thought was a seductive tone of voice. He just _knew_ he'd be able to pick up some foxy ladies in this get-up. "Whose your dadd-"

At this moment, his wife, Carly Potter, flounced into the room, her 4-inch stilettos clicking obnoxiously on the tiled floor. She ignored Harry completely after she pushed him unceremoniously from the mirror and began applying an alarmingly thick band of eyeliner above her faux lashes, nearly poking her own eyes out with her inch long scarlet nails. She was 31, but strongly believed that she didn't look a day over 18, due to her girlish figure and scarlet woman worthy outfits.

She then proceeded to apply a very generous layer of foundation on her face. The foundation was several shades more orange than her natural skin tone, but hey, she couldn't let Harry look better than her.

After being shoved aside, Harry took the opportunity to admire her backside. _Gonna have to break out the Viagra tonight_, he decided, lewdly taking in her (trashy) short pleather skirt and tight leopard print tank top. Her dangerously volumized hair flowed down her back like a rabid hyena sprayed to death with a can of hairspray. Just the way Harry liked it. Divorcing Ginny for Carly had been the best thing he had done since defeating ol' Voldy!

Harry shuffled into the kitchen and took his daily dose of Vicodin to ease the pain that his scar was causing him these days. A simple pain-killing charm would have done the trick, but Muggle medicine had such appealing side effects! Carly reappeared in the doorway, and Harry, in a fit of boyish mischief, smacked her flabby pleather-covered buttocks before the attractive couple headed out the door.

Carly and Harry were now living in London, and Harry was president of a prestigious wizarding college, Bulby College. This evening he and Carly were going to the school's annual orchestra concert. Neither Harry nor his lovely wife particularly liked these sort of events, as they both were low-culture at heart, and despised consorting with the general public. They both preferred the company of their meth dealer and his cronies. Although Harry believed that it was impossible for an outsider to tell, the only reason that he got this job was because of his fame (and dashing good looks, of course).

Upon arriving, Harry felt the Vicodin kicking in, and began to nod off. His head fell onto Carly's shoulder and his drool dripped down onto her leopard print tank top. She roughly shoved him off of her disgustedly and he awoke with a start, and flicked her highly-volumized hair behind one shoulder. Harry groggily blinked his eyes and gazed confusedly around him. The concert had started, and the orchestra's music echoed powerfully throughout the hall. Harry winced. He had no idea why people liked this sort of thing – he personally would rather face Voldemort than hear this rumpus. _High culture my arse_, he thought loftily. These people really had no idea what high culture was! Looking around at the students and faculty that were attending the event, Harry was suddenly outraged by the lack of fashion sense they all were demonstrating.

To get his mind off of the fashion-blind inferior beings that surrounded him, Harry decided that he thought he should at least look like he was enjoying himself – for appearance's sake, that is. The Vicodin was now working full force, and as a result his motor skills were mediocre at best (not that they were really very good anyways). In his drug-induced stupor, he jerked and thrusted to the beat of the music in a way that he thought looked very high-class, but for some reason was attracting a good deal of whispers and giggles. Harry took this as a good sign and kept doing it, feeling extraordinarily pleased with himself. Carly looked on admiringly.

Two students, Hannah and Eliza (whose names have been changed to protect their anonymity and to prevent any lawsuits filed against them by Harry Potter or "that greedy bitch Carly" – their words, not mine) sitting in the balcony opposite of Harry and his wife watched this disturbing display of tone-deafness and stoned incompetence with mirth. "That old codger's gone barmy!" Hannah whispered as Eliza flew into a fresh fit of violent laughter.

Below them, Harry continued to move his extremities in jerky, awkward movements that must have been to a beat that no one else could hear.

All too soon, the performance was over, and Hannah and Eliza amusedly watched Harry shuffle gawkily towards the exit as quickly as possible, dodging any attempts at civilized conversation. Carly trailed behind him slowly, swinging her hips in a seductive manner, her eyes aggressively seeking out males under the age of 18, which she deemed the appropriate demographic to thrust her attentions upon.

"Man, look at Harry," Hannah giggled, "that little minx sure knows how to get around when he wants to!" Eliza laughed uproariously and punched Hannah in the stomach as Harry disappeared into the night.


End file.
